


Sparkless

by bonebo



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-05
Updated: 2014-06-05
Packaged: 2018-02-03 12:28:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1744655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonebo/pseuds/bonebo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Society tells him what he was, what he is, all that he can be--</p><p>Yet he finds himself wondering if the labels are right, and if so, is he?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sparkless

It's been a million years since the cease-fire between the Autobots and the Decepticons, and life on Cybertron still has quite a way to go before it can be called peaceful.

Most mechs have kept the brands they wore during the war—out of pride or the simple fact that millions of years of war can become part of one's identity—and it's not uncommon knowledge that purple brands are linked with deceit and violence, red brands with honesty and peace. Discrimination fills the gaps left by the now-vacant lasers, with mutters behind backs ringing louder than the gunfire ever did.

But to the former second-in-command of the hated faction, the words sting just as badly.

Starscream had quit the war even before the truce had been called—tired of Megatron's poor guidance and his heavy fists, he'd abandoned his title and fled to the outer rim of the galaxy, seeking to scrape by however he could until the war finally drew to a close. Once news of the cease-fire had reached him, he'd immediately returned to Cybertron, and found to his delight that most things had returned to how they'd been before the war. There were universities opening again, research laboratories that needed staffing, and it only took a few pulled strings to land him in one of the smaller labs with but the tools and Skyfire for company.

He'd been in his element—at peace, amid the whirring machines and the bubbling chemicals, the soft humming of Skyfire's engine and the content quiet between them. 

But that was before the harassment began, and all these years later, it has yet to cease.

So he's not all that surprised when he shows up to the labs and finds the door covered in purple paint, _'TRAITOR'_ and _'MONSTER'_ daubed onto the metal—this is why he makes sure he shows up before Skyfire every day, after all. There's a shoddily-drawn Decepticon symbol in the middle of the door today, but he glances down and it's the word below it that gives him pause.

 _'SPARKLESS'_.

For a few klicks he doesn't even move, just stares at the word—sparkless is new. Sparkless is different, sparkless is strange, and as he grazes his fingertips across the word he thinks fleetingly of Skyfire and realizes that sparkless is painfully relevant. 

Sparkless.

Is he?

Starscream sets to work scrubbing the door clean and realizes, only when the purple paint is gone and the dye stains his fingertips, that his uncertainty about the answer tells him exactly what it is.

__

 

“Starscream.”

It's the third time in a row that Skyfire has called his name and he finally glances over, trying and failing to keep his irritation in check as he snaps back a sharp, “What is it? I'm working!”

Skyfire just frowns at him, setting down his laser-cutter and turning to face him completely. He's been able to read Starscream's tension all day, from the wings drawn up tight and the clipped voice to the distracted, distant way he's handled his materials—but he's not picked up a single clue as to its origin. “...no, actually. You're about to mix plutonium with neonatium, which will result in an explosion with enough toxic fumes to shut down our circuits.”

His voice is flat and Starscream glances down, staring at the test tubes he'd been about to combine, and it takes but a second to realize that Skyfire is right. With jerking servos he all but slams the tubes back into their holders, staring at them with flared optics, processor reeling.

He'd just about killed them both.

Sparkless.

“Starscream...” And then Skyfire is closer, voice cautious but concerned. “Something is wrong with you. Tell me what it is.”

“Nothing is wrong,” Starscream snaps, grabbing for another set of tubes—checking them four times to make sure they are correct—and ignoring the way Skyfire frowns. “Get back to work.”

“Not until I know what's got you so worked up.” Skyfire walks the short distance to stand by his partner's side, and lays his servos on Starscream's, feeling the excess charge that races beneath his plating—the tension in Starscream's frame is tangible, and Skyfire can't recall the last time he saw his partner so disturbed. “And you're not working, either, until you tell me.”

“There's nothing to tell!” Starscream retorts hotly, jerking away from Skyfire and setting the tubes down; he turns away, optics fixed on the far wall, and he can feel Skyfire's staring into the back of his helm as he waits for a reply.

It comes in the form of a servo rubbing at the junction of his wing, and he jerks before habitually settling into the comforting touch.

“Starscream.” Skyfire's voice is quiet in his audial, the tips of his fingers soft as they knead at his tense joints. “Trying to convince me that you are not upset about something is both selfish and stupid—two things that you most certainly are not. If—”

“What am I, then?”

The question stops Skyfire mid-sentence, and he peers down at his smaller partner, helm tilted. “What do you mean?”

“I mean...” Starscream scowls, optics narrowing, and hisses out a ventilation. When he finds it in himself to speak, the words come in a rush, tumbling out in a raw, careless stream. “Apparently the war has not yet ceased. The general public's opinion of those wearing purple is at an all-time low, and they take it upon themselves to label anyone with such a brand as sparkless monsters, no questions asked.”

“You're not sparkless—”

“Spare me your rambling prose,” Starscream cuts in, rolling his optics; he ignores the way Skyfire crosses his arms, an act of self-defense that is unintentional but not chastised. “I don't believe in the redemption of others, and I don't want your sympathetic, piteous prattle.”

For a moment, the only sound is the soft rumble of their engines, almost synchronized in the silence of the lab. Starscream lets the quiet fester for a moment before glancing up.

And then, suddenly and all at once, there is Skyfire.

Moving with a speed that seems out of sorts with his size, he gathers Starscream in his arms; any objection Starscream would voice is silenced by panels and panels of white, by a sparkchamber thrumming against him, by lips against his own. He's caught off-guard and the kiss lasts, and by the time he's collected himself enough to bite the lips are gone again. A servo settles over his mouth anyway—gentle, always so gentle, despite Skyfire's might—and his optics smolder crimson as he looks up.

“You don't have to believe in others to believe in yourself, Starscream,” Skyfire says softly, his servo slowly falling from the other's faceplates. “I know you're not sparkless, because I believe in science, and science tells me so.”

The words fade in the air and for a short while Starscream is quiet, still in the gilded cage of Skyfire's arms. His wings flutter faintly, his helm slightly tilted toward the side, and during it all Skyfire is frozen, struck by the cut-glass beauty of the moment.

But Starscream is nothing if not dynamic, a gale-force wind ruled only by his own desire, and as quickly as the moment is there it's gone. He squirms out of Skyfire's hold and strides back over to his desk, wings held up and tight, and Skyfire grins, unseen, at his back.

“You're cute when you're embarrassed,” he comments, absurdly pleased with himself as he follows; Starscream throws a venomous glare over his shoulder, slamming his hands down on the desk with just a touch more force than necessary. 

“The Decepticon Air Commander does not get embarrassed,” he snaps, and the statement is enough to wipe the smirk right off Skyfire's faceplates. 

“You're not the Air Commander, here. Not anymore,” he states firmly, pressing himself against Starscream's back. His servos grasp the smaller wings lightly, covering the Decepticon brands there. “You are Starscream. Nothing more, and nothing less, and everything I could ever desire.”

For a moment, silence reigns again, until Starscream breaks it with a huff of ventilation. “...there's your prattling again.” He grumbles, but there is no venom is his voice, no tension in his frame as he leans back and rests against endless white plates.


End file.
